Easement
by Queenafoster
Summary: Missing Scene from "The Master's Touch Affair"


Easement  
Missing Scene from _"The Master's Touch Affair"_

Napoleon walked down the hall at the Lisbon office and massaged his neck, stretching out his shoulder blades. It had been a long couple of days since getting off the boat in the harbor. He'd just returned from dropping Miss Welling at the hotel and then Mr. Waverly at the airport. Now he was back at the office to work on the report. Medical had signed off that Illya didn't need more than basic treatment for his injuries and fatigue. _At least physically,_ Napoleon thought to himself. He stopped a young lady in passing, "Excuse me. Can you direct me to Mr. Kuryakin?"

Her smile was suggestive. "Certainly, Mr. Solo. Follow me."

"With pleasure." As usual, his reputation had preceded him. He added a wink and a sly grin for form's sake, but there would be no extracurricular activity tonight. He was done in, physically and mentally. And he still had a report to rough out.

She showed him a door down the hall. "Right in here, Mr. Solo."

"Thank you, Miss…?"

"Brinias. Janelle."

"Miss Brinias." He brushed her hand with his lips. His flirtations had served him well over the years. Knowing the names of local staff had come in handy on many occasions. But once she turned to go, he lost most of his interest. Top priorities for section two, numbers one and two—report, then sleep.

He pushed open the door, "Illya?"

Napoleon's partner sat behind a typewriter, startling as the door opened. That was…unusual. Illya covered though. "Mr. Waverly and Lisa get off all right?"

"Fine. How's the report coming?"

If Napoleon didn't know his partner better than himself, he wouldn't have seen the fleeting vulnerability. "Incomplete. You're going to have to provide most of the detail."

Napoleon decided to ignore the moment of discomposure. Teasing and insults were required in their repartee, and routine was absolutely necessary today of all days. "How is that any different than usual?"

"What is different is that I cannot even begin to prompt your memory this time."

Illya wasn't even trying to come back at him. Napoleon chewed the inside of his cheek, searching his instincts on how to proceed. "Well, let's see where we're at."

Looking over Illya's shoulder, Napoleon read the details of his partner's arrival in Lisbon, the rendezvous with Solo, and the car chase in the mountains. He finished up with Illya's capture by Thrush agents sent by Valandros and the beginnings of Illya's _interrogation._

Interrogation. Such a simple word covering a huge range of meanings. Easy questions all the way to torture and drugs. Illya had been subjected to a great deal of the worst over the last two days. Napoleon had been in the same spot himself on occasion, and the aftermath was always dicey. Each time was different, and the partner on the outside had to tread carefully. Depression and feelings of incompetence were common—even when the agent knew to expect them, it was difficult. Illya was trying to appear unaffected, but to Napoleon, the signs were clear: the startle, the lack of engagement and eye contact, only a few paragraphs written over the last couple hours. The glossing over of two days of drugs and torture with _interrogation._ The fact that Illya came after Napoleon when they returned to Valandros' estate today. Illya wouldn't let Napoleon enter without back up even though he was barely vertical and only partially alert. Napoleon—anyone—could appreciate that kind of devotion. He, of course, would return the same. That's what they did, after all. They watched each other's back; they took care of each other. _When they could,_ he amended. Napoleon hadn't done a very good job during the last two days.

"This is a good start. Why don't I dictate? You're a better typist anyway. And we'll get done quicker. All right, partner?" Typing the report would enlighten Illya on the rest of the affair and also give him a job. The necessary concentration would help take his mind off some of the worst aspects of the last two days. And Illya was a man who needed occupation. The quick agility of his mind lent itself easily to disguise, infiltration, and undercover work because he always had to be on his toes in the presence of the enemy. Even during down time, Illya needed work. One of the reasons that he usually drove or piloted their joint vehicles was because he needed something to think about, something in his hands, something to _do._

Only Napoleon could have detected the fight for control on Illya's face. But in a few seconds, Illya nodded decisively and grabbed a new report sheet. A brief glance demonstrated his gratitude, and Napoleon was thankful for the connection.

It took a couple of hours to grind out the basics of the report. Napoleon was tired, and he had to work harder to remember names and approximate times of the salient events. In the heat of battle, Napoleon knew Einstein's theory was correct: time was elastic and stretchy. Explosions, emotions, and death tended to blur the consistency of one second following the next. The tension of the last two days complicated Napoleon's ability to make a clear report. And the drugs and pain Illya suffered made his portion almost completely incomprehensible. Hence the imprecise but accurate _interrogation_. But Waverly would be able to read between the lines.

When they finished, Illya excused himself while Napoleon located a staff member to transmit the report so Waverly would have it for review when he landed in New York. Illya was waiting by the exit when Napoleon was finally ready to go.

The Lisbon office was a small station for U.N.C.L.E. They didn't have onsite accommodations for visiting agents, so he and Illya went to the hotel where they'd installed Leslie Welling. Napoleon didn't ask for another penthouse like she presently occupied, but the two agents deserved a comfortable room for the next couple of days. If Waverly grumped about the budget—always a possibility but doubtful after this particular affair—then Napoleon would make up the difference himself. Section two had a little extra built into their budget. Napoleon usually tried to save it for his other agents, but this case had been a bit beyond the pale.

Napoleon pushed open the door to their hotel room. Illya followed and dropped his bag at the end of the far bed. Without a word, he went in the bathroom and shut the door. Napoleon checked the room and set the standard alarms, then he heard the faint sounds of retching. Napoleon shook his head and rubbed the kinks out of his back. He'd been there too. Even in this activity, Illya was quieter than most. Shortly, there was a flush and the water running.

Illya came out looking even more pale than usual. His voice was rough and fatigued. "I'm going to take a shower if you need in there first."

"Thanks."

When Napoleon came back out, Illya was waiting. In seconds the shower was running. It ran a long time. Napoleon used the time to check on Leslie. She'd been very game in helping U.N.C.L.E. despite the danger it posed. Napoleon requested her presence for dinner the following evening as a thank you. A famous fashion model would probably let the cat out of the bag eventually about her role in the affair. Making sure any slips were complimentary to U.N.C.L.E. was just part and parcel of the job. Bad public relations could kill the organization and the world's support.

Illya came out of the bathroom in a ratty t-shirt and pajama bottoms. "I'm sorry I took so long—"

Napoleon brushed it off. Apologies weren't necessary between them for punches or insults; an extra long shower was way down the list. "Just checking in with Miss Welling. I figured we'd take her out tomorrow night."

For a wonder, Illya seemed at a loss. Another unusual event. "I probably won't be very good company."

Napoleon grabbed his kit, "We'll think of something. We got all day tomorrow. You're not sitting around by yourself."

When Napoleon came out of the bathroom, finally feeling more like a human than a zombie, Illya was already in bed, reading a physics journal. He pulled off his glasses and tossed the periodical aside. He rolled toward the window. Napoleon studied him for a second, then reached for the lamp, "Night, partner."

A moment, then, "Good night, Napoleon."

Napoleon pulled the blankets up, feeling the soreness, knowing Illya had the same problem—probably more so after two days with Valandros. Napoleon wanted—_needed_—a good night's sleep. But he couldn't settle. He was so tired, so close to dropping off, but something kept snatching him back. Someone_._

Across the empty space, Illya hadn't moved a muscle…which wasn't all that unusual. Most field agents could grab a nap at the drop of a hat. Real sleep might be a long way off, so anyone who stayed in the field very long became adept at dropping off quickly. Even so, Illya had a well deserved reputation for sleeping anywhere, anytime. He slept quickly, soundly, lightly, and could be fully awake and deadly in a split second. Napoleon had seen him do it many times.

But he wasn't asleep right now. Finely tuned partner instincts let Napoleon know Illya was a taut bow string, ready to snap. "It was close today."

"Yes."

"Mandor very nearly succeeded."

"Yes."

"It took me too long to figure out why he let Leslie escape. I think if we'd been together, you or I would have realized it sooner. Maybe gotten him or Valandros before they killed each other. Gotten that third name."

Illya was quiet for a moment. "I was of very little use during this affair. I was unable to assist you at all. You would have been better off if I was in New York."

"I disagree. We're always more effective together. Any other time, you'd agree with me."

"Maybe I would be wrong."

"Again, I disagree. My thinking is clearer and faster when I know you've got my back."

"I did not have your back this time. I was useless. More, I was an impediment."

"Not to me. Not ever."

Napoleon waited for a response, but Illya fell silent. One of his partner's more annoying habits, if Illya felt the argument was useless, he simply refused to participate. Right now, he knew he would be unable to convince Napoleon so he stopped trying.

Time for more concrete action. "I can't sleep. My back is having trouble remembering it's covered again. Can I squeeze in?"

Illya took a moment before answering. "Of course."

Napoleon was at the other bed in half a second as Illya scooted toward the other side. "Hang on, that's far enough. I need you close."

Illya stilled and managed a half glance back. He handed the other pillow to Napoleon. Illya lay back down, and Napoleon spooned up behind, tossing an arm across his partner's waist. Illya was tense for a few seconds, then Napoleon felt him pass a quavering sigh. Slowly, slowly, tight muscles eased. As his partner calmed, so did Napoleon. And together, they finally managed to fall asleep.


End file.
